


Before the Cottage, A Tailor and a Demon

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: The Cottage, the Husbands [12]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: By request, prequel self indulgent fluff to my Cottage series, in which Twelve the designer meets a certain demon (not that he tells her that's what he is, the ass) and forms a friendship.  Aziraphale/Crowley is in the background only.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Cottage, the Husbands [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1403908
Comments: 86
Kudos: 404





	Before the Cottage, A Tailor and a Demon

Twelve first met Anthony Crowley a year after she moved to London. She wasn’t quite a _nobody_ \- no 6’3” brash, American woman with her sense of style was going to go unnoticed for long - but her shop was small and a bit shabby under the results of her elbow grease, and she did more tailoring than proper designing at the time. In those early days, appointments were more a politeness than an absolute necessity.

And the young man who had made such an appointment had been quite nice, so when the aging rock star wannabe sailed into her shop, red hair curling around his ears, she said, “I’ve an appointment, but I should be available in an hour’s time.”

The man looked at her. He was wearing sunglasses, despite the cool weather, and snake skin shoes, and a mismash of clothing that Twelve instantly found interesting. That was definitely a lady’s blouse but men’s slacks. She adjusted her internal monologue from “he” to “they,” just in case. 

“No, you don’t,” they said nonchalantly, sauntering into the room as if the floor was made up of 80% water. “He cancelled.”

Twelve perched her hands on her hips. “He most certainly did-” Her phone dinged. She held up a finger and looked at it. Normally, she’d never take her phone when a customer was in the shop, but this person wasn’t really a customer, were they? 

“Ah,” she said, frowning at the small screen. “....He did.”

The stranger smiled, broad and white and somehow giving the impression of a few too many teeth. “Then you’re available now,” they said. “How lovely.” Sarcasm practically dripped from their voice. “An-tony Crowley.” They didn’t offer a hand to shake. “I need a designer who can tailor to my body properly. I’ve seen some of your work, including on you, and you know what you’re doing.” It wasn’t a question. “Interested? Money is no object.”

Twelve was going to send them on their way (she had a solid three inches on them and pointy shoes) but that _money has no object_ was-

Well, she had _bills_ to pay.

She crossed her arms, trying to look like she was doing this person a favor. “Very well. Tell me what you want and we’ll see.”

The grin came back, canines almost sparkling. “Have you, by any chance, ever seen _Mary Poppins_?” they asked with something like carefully understated glee.

\-----

The first time Twelve heard about Antony’s Angel was while she was working on a bit of flair at the bottom hem of one pencil skirt. Antony (“she” at present, though that seemed as much about her current job as a nanny as Antony’s personal gender) had a tendency to talk while Twelve worked, a sort of nervous energy usually released in pacing and slithering, both firmly denied when Twelve purposefully poked her with a conveniently large pin for refusing to be still.

“But as soon as I set the boy down,” Twelve figured the boy had a name but it was never mentioned, “here comes the angel to coddle him, all loaded down with cookies and poems about loving mankind and all the little animals,” Antony sneered. “Ridiculous.”

Twelve gave the skirt a bit of a tug and leaned back to look at it. It was professional, if rather gothic. The feminine hem gave Antony a bit of flirtiness she sorely needed. Antony kept her legs shaved close (or so Twelve thought at the time, unaware of the miraculous nature of Antony’s body), but still insisted on thick stockings for the aesthetic. “The angel?” she asked, because keeping her talking meant keeping her still.

Antony spluttered. Twelve had never heard someone actually splutter before, and the sharp cheekbones warmed with a hint of pink. Oh ho ho, she thought, now this is interesting.

“Nothing!” Antony finally said, sounding a bit like a cat who had choked on too much nip. “I mean, not-just someone I know, a co-worker, the gardener. His name’s ah-Angel.”

“And you disapprove of his telling your charge about loving mankind and all the little animals?” The British, Twelve thought, always were a bit odd. She adored living in London and was working on her citizenship, but that didn’t stop her from making a mental list of weirdnesses. This list was topped, and always would be, by the existence and eating of blood pudding. The use of the word “rubber” in normal conversation was another, and the entire concept of how Antony Crowley was nanny to a small boy had to be in the top five.

Antony sniffed and adjusted her glasses. “Yes, well, how am I to raise him to be a proper hellion if Angel’s always poking his nose in?” But there was a smile on her lips (really, they _must_ discuss her choice of lipstick, one didn’t have to wear the same pink-red every day of their lives) which, combined with the earlier spluttering, was Twelve’s first clue that Angel was someone very special indeed.

“Is he _meant_ to be a hellion?” Twelve asked as she motioned Antony to step down. 

Antony managed, somehow, to convey the concept of looking over her glasses without revealing so much as a hint of her eyes. “Of course,” she said sternly. “A proper young king of hell. What else would be be?”

Yes, Twelve thought, adding this to her list. The English are truly odd.

\------

“He’s already avoiding me,” Antony groaned morosely from his spot sprawled in front of Twelve’s lovely new sofa. He’d brought along some truly excellent liquor, which he’d already opened by the time he saunter-slinked through the door. “It’s a _year_ until the kid’s ten and we retire, but he’s already practicing!” His sunglasses teetered to the side, but didn’t fall off. Twelve had a theory that had to do with magnets installed on either side of Antony’s rather sharp nose.

“Who’s that?” Twelve asked, adjusting the dramatic pool of her skirt around her and sipping delicately. 

“Angel!” Antony exploded. “Angel, Angel, _Angel, Angel!!_ ”

He drooped like an especially sad and especially goth dandelion. 

“Ah,” Twelve said, as though this was a surprise. Of course it wasn’t. The only people Antony ever talked about were “the boy,” “Angel,” and occasionally, “Hasssstur,” who was apparently his boss. She suspected he’d be thrilled if Hastur was trying to avoid him. 

“Four years without his constant worrying and THEY WILL DESTROY YOUs and being ignored for 300 year old books he’s read at least twice before! Dinner three times a week! The Ritz!! Clandestine meetings! I know, I _know_ he was this close,” Antony held his fingers (those nails needed a fresh coat of laquer) a millimeter apart, “to that damned - excuse me, no, not damned, not with the angel there, but- picnic!” Antony’s hands drew fascinating if indistinct pictures in the air as he spoke. “I mention one little mortal birthday and POOF. He hides in the bushes.”

Antony kicked one heel against the ground disconsolately. Somehow he was managing to sprawl nearly spread eagle, minus the very uncomfortable looking twist as his spine to lean against the side of the sofa, without splitting his ridiculously tight trousers right down the center. Truly, Twelve thought, she was a genius. Anyone else’s work would be in tatters by now. “S not fair,” he finished, with all the certainty of the nine year old he was helping to raise.

“Pretty sure life never is,” Twelve agreed and, since she read _The Princess Bride_ once a year, “anyone who says otherwise is selling something.” 

He gave her a morose look. “Don’t you quote literature at _me_ ,” he muttered. “That’s Angel’s job.”

Twelve smiled into her glass. She didn’t know Angel, but his love of literature appealed to her own bookishness. “So,” she said reasonably, prepared for the unreasonable response, “Why don’t you just _talk_ to him about how you feel?”

Antony’s hand shot up and pressed against his chest like the most Victorian lady of all time. “Talk to him?!” he sputtered. “I could ne-what would I-just- _pay attention to me?!_ That’ssss ridiculoussss!”

That was the best hiss she’d heard so far. She could appreciate a man’s dedication to snakes, but that was taking it a bit far. “Well,” she said, still level-headed due to her delicate sip approach to alcoholic beverages, “seems to me if you’re not going to do anything about it, you don’t get to whine all the time.”

Twelve could _sense_ the owlish blink behind those glasses. “Excuse me?”

“It’s like voting,” Twelve said, “if you don’t vote, you don’t get bitching rights. If you don’t tell your angel that you miss him, you don’t get to complain when he hides in the bushes.”

Antony scowled darkly. There was something a little terrifying when he looked like that, a miasma of darkness she wouldn’t understand until several years later when she attended a certain wedding. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Possibly not,” Twelve agreed, “but neither do you.”

“Ngk,” Antony answered, broodingly.

\-----

It was a warm summer afternoon when Antony breezed in (cancelled appointment: Mrs. Werstershin-Smythe, a very difficult woman who apparently believed the year was 1876 and the gentry were above such inanities as paying for goods or labor; Twelve wouldn’t miss her), practically floating - bouncing? No, his walk was too serpentine for bouncing but the emotion was there - through the front door and beaming at Twelve. “Hello!” he crowed, “Nice to see you’re alive and well and not chaf in the remnants of a celestial war!”

Twelve had grown used to Antony’s inanities, but this one was especially odd. She raised on eyebrow perfectly. “Yes,” she said mildly, “I suppose it is.”

“I need clothes,” Antony went on. “More proper clothes for a new world.” He leaned against the counter and ran a finger along it. In the years he’d been her customer, Twelve’s talent, business acumen, and a heavy dose of luck had transformed the once shabby little shop into a sleek showplace. Since Antony’s _money is no object_ take on life was no small part of that, she allowed him his eccentricities. “Any ideas?” HIs canines practically sparkled. 

Twelve grinned back. “I might have a few sketches for you to consider,” she said. 

When you got right down to it, Twelve _liked_ Antony, and he was hella fun to dress. 

They spent the afternoon arguing and agreeing over sketches, women’s shirts and men’s slacks, comfortable skirts and sleek dresses, tailored suits and the sparkle of accesories. Most of it was black, but Twelve was stubborn and talked him into splashes of reds and purples and oranges, along with the occasional midnight blue. Twelve kicked off her shoes and shrugged out of her corset; Antony took off his vest and laughed more than once - bright, sudden, sharp sounds. 

They were on their third pot of coffee (liberally spiked in Antony’s mug, the lush) when Twelve broached the subject:

“So,” she said nonchalantly as Antony poked through a selection of ties from one of Twelve’s artisan friends, “how are things with Angel?”

Antony turned red.

Solid red, across his nose and his cheeks and his ears, almost as red as his hair.

It was, absolutely, the most adorable thing Twelve had ever seen.

“Oh, ho!” she cooed. “I see.”

“Shuddup,” Antony returned, but there was no venom in the words. He was smiling, embarrassed and soft and too much to take. “Nothing. Nothing’s going on.”

“Is so!” Twelve grabbed the pillow she was lounging on - stolen from the couch as ideas spread across the floor, and whacked him with it. His expression of complete shock made her a little sad. The poor dear, he’d obviously been left out of proper sleepover etiquette as a child. She’d let him in one what he’d missed sometime. Maybe she’d invite Angel, definitely without telling Antony beforehand. “What. Happened.”

It was not a request.

Antony squirmed, and hemmed, and tried to get up (she snatched him back down) and talked about leaving and important things to do, and she held on, and finally he muttered, “Heddhannsonaboo.”

“What?” she pressed. He repeated it, only slightly more clearly, she threatened him with a purple nurple, took a time out to explain what a purple nurple _was_ , dealt with the odd question _but what if you haven’t got nipples_ and said she’d think of something before he blurted properly:

“WE HELD HANDS ON THE BUS!” 

And Antony had to be in his 50s, he had to be, a 50 year old, ridiculously wealthy man determined to be cool at all times, absolutely losing it over _holding hands on the bus_. 

It was in that moment that Twelve decided that, yes, she was definitely going to keep him. 

After all, there might be scandalous cheek kissing in the future, or Angel might show a shapely ankle, and how could she miss that?

\----

A few months later, when a dapper middle aged gentleman appeared at her door with a lovely basket of teas and biscuits, and said, a bit shyly, “I was hoping to pick up some clothing for Anthony Crowley?”, Twelve adopted _him_ instantly. 

“Manners,” she told Antony archly after a certain wedding was over and she was done yelling at him for being an otherworldly being and they’d had a row over whether Crowley influenced hell’s fashion or hell’s influenced his, “it’s all about manners, darling. He has them. You don’t.” 

The angel smiled into his tea, Antony sputtered, and Twelve grinned. It was good to have family here in England, even if it was these two timeless idiots, she thought, and patted Antony’s hand consolingly.


End file.
